


come, pick me up

by sassyneki



Category: Produce 101 (TV), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-disbandment, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Produce 101 - Freeform, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, basically BTS doesn't make it and they disband in 2014, i can't believe there's no tag for produce 101!au, lots of hard work and tears bc idol life, then jjg and kth join p101 in 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyneki/pseuds/sassyneki
Summary: The road less travelled is not always the easiest. When Jeongguk joins Produce 101, he doesn't expect to meet one of his ex-members, not after BTS disbanded almost three years ago. He doesn't expect to meet Kim Taehyung.





	1. 너를 보던 그 순간

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from: [produce 101 - pick me (나야 나)](https://youtu.be/NIld_iEc67s)

Jeongguk remembers that one time Namjoon recited something from his list of English quotes. It had been after a particularly gruelling evaluation, one where all of them had been scolded horribly—what is this lack of sharpness, why is his voice so breathy, does he even want to debut—and Yoongi had clenched his fists so hard, his eyes were so shiny. Jimin had been reduced to tears, Taehyung had buried his face in the back of Jeongguk’s hoodie, and Seokjin and Hoseok sat in the corner quietly, mouths tight.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—” Namjoon began, low and calm. Everyone was shaking, except for him. Jeongguk knew he would be the leader even back then. “I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”

It took them a while to understand, even after Namjoon explained it. But after a bit, the words sunk in, and Jeongguk realised what his hyung was getting at.

It wasn’t easy, coming up to Seoul at the age of fourteen to a dorm, too many boys squeezed into too small a space. Nor was it easy heading to a new school every day, barely making any friends, only to come back right after to spend hour after hour in the studio. Or to make the decision to skip one year of school so he could properly prepare for their debut.

His parents had been suspicious. This company that barely anyone had ever heard of, suddenly contacting him with an offer? To move all the way up to Seoul when his voice hadn’t even properly broken yet?

“This is the road less travelled,” Namjoon said. “This is the one we chose, and we won’t be walking it alone. We will walk it together.”

That was what Namjoon had said, when they had been a few months away from their debut stage. Jeongguk looks to his small, cramped goshiwon and thinks to the part-time job at the cafe he has waiting for him and the busking he does on the weekends, waiting to catch a big break, and thinks about what could have been.

He thinks about how they gave up after the first full-length album failed to break even. About how they could have tried more, could have persevered, could have watered the earth to create their own flower-paved road. He thinks about what could have been.

 

* * *

 

When Jeongguk first heard about Produce 101 launching a second season, he had been skeptical. He’d just graduated high school last week, and amongst the whispers with his name caught in the slivers (“That’s Jeon Jeongguk, the one from that hip hop group that broke up? ‘Bulletproof boyband’ or something?”) there were the smatterings of something else far more interesting, that the unexpectedly successful first season of what was like an idol-ified version of the Hunger Games was about to have a sequel.

(It’s hard to miss this kind of news when you go to Seoul’s School of Performing Arts. It’s hard to miss the same faces that litter commercials and magazine spreads, an idol here and a backup dancer there. A success here and a failure there.)

Sanghyun is the one who confirms it. He’s only a year older than Jeongguk but he used to be from a small company, before nulling his contract to go for university instead, and dancing only on weekends, so he has contacts, and Jeongguk can trust his information.

“Yeah, the producers are looking for people now,” Sanghyun stage-whispers. The rest of the busking crew gathers around him, moths to a flame. “I heard even Brand New is sending people.”

“Brand New? Don’t they do hip hop?”

“I guess they finally realised where the money is,” Sanghyun replies. “No one can top physical sales like the boy groups.”

Jeongguk had received offers after BTS disbanded, but after what had been a disheartening year of promoting, he no longer felt like he belonged in the industry. He still loves music, and he loves singing and dancing and being on stage, but to put a number—physical sales, digital sales, _what number are we on Melon today?_ —to what he loved was nauseating. He couldn’t quantify his passions and still do them out of want, not necessity.

And so he’d left the industry (almost) completely. His arts school gave him enough exposure anyway, and he continued to sing and dance, joining a busking crew that does both singing and dancing. He gets the freedom to do both whenever he wants, even if there is little money involved.

But when he watches the year-end awards, when he sees EXO or GOT7 or some other boy group dropping their music videos and clinching awards, tears streaming down their faces as they try to muster out words of thanks, throats tight and chests tighter, he can’t help but wonder what could have been.

What would it have been like if the company hadn’t given up on them, if his hyungs hadn’t given up on themselves, if he hadn’t given up on himself?

He’s watched a few music show stages since then. (Since the day their disbandment had been announced, and they’d all retreated to the dorms with bodies weary and minds rattled and hearts torn.) And each time, when he hears the fading-out of a song and sees the dancers manoeuvre into their ending poses, chests heaving from the intensity and adrenaline, he wonders: what would it be like, to stand on a stage again?

 

* * *

 

The process of applying is a whirlwind, and it is messy. Jeongguk is not the only independent trainee to join, nor is he the only trainee with a past—can he even be considered a trainee, really?—but when he receives the notice that he has actually been accepted, and he must come down on this day at this time for the ranking evaluations, his heart stops.

He didn’t actually _think_ he would get in. He’d sent in an audition tape, a self-choreographed song and dance to DAY6’s ‘Habits’ that was more self-indulgent than anything else, on the off-chance that the producers might take a liking to it. Turns out, they did. He was met with all sorts of congratulations and a celebratory night at the Han River, courtesy of his crew, but none of them noticed the way his smiles had been pulled tight and nervous, or how his voice cracked every time they asked him about his strategy, like he even had one.

Jeongguk is the fourth to enter, and the set is incredible. Flashy and shiny, a giant throne perched at the top and chairs beneath it, gradually getting smaller and less luxurious as the golden numbers on them increased. The first place, the center, at the peak of the pyramid, whilst everyone else remained below. A popularity contest if he’d ever seen one.

“Hello, my name is Jeon Jeongguk, and I am an independent trainee,” he greets, bowing low. The three others greet him back: one seated at number two, another at forty and forty-one.

He takes a decent spot. Number seven, because that means he has enough ambition to try and make it into the final group, but not so arrogant that he would be at the top. Seven is a good spot. Seven is the number of members Bangtan had.

The wait is long. Groups that have more members would take longer: they have to write on a whiteboard, words of encouragement and positivity, before entering, and the holding room after that has makeup that most would probably know how to use, but not Jeongguk. Not since the makeup noonas stopped keeping in touch with him, though he’s still a sucker for good skincare.

He recognises a few famous faces here and there. Samuel Kim, a tiny boy with burning eyes, the one who was supposed to debut with Seventeen. When the whole of NU’EST enters, everyone erupts into whispers. There are more that he finds familiar but can’t quite pinpoint.

And then he enters. Hair a sandy blond, skin as golden and tan as it has always been, smile wide and rectangular and familiar.

“Good morning, I’m Kim Taehyung, and I am a seven-year trainee from Big Hit Entertainment,” Taehyung greets. “It’s nice to meet everyone.”

Chatter erupts again, and this time, Jeongguk can feel some gazes land on him. It’s weird. He knew Big Hit almost went bankrupt after investing so much into BTS and getting so little in return; he hadn’t kept in touch with hyungs, but he thought that all of them would leave after their contracts had terminated. Figures Big Hit would try to retain Taehyung, the one with the handsome face, who picks up choreography fast, who has a unique voice.

“Wasn’t he in that group? The one with the whole Kanye West swagger thing going on?” someone from behind asks.

“Isn’t he the guy from _Hwarang_?” the boy to his left asks. His nametag says [Lee Yoojin](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C6xMPm4VwAElAb7.jpg) and he is handsome, looks more like an actor than an idol. “The youngest one!”

Oh, right, Taehyung had a drama. No wonder they would send him, they have an actual actor under their belt, one that is sure to garner votes. Jeongguk had heard about it when Taehyung had revived their group chat out of nowhere, months ago, and though he’d also given his congratulations, it had been left at a short _good job hyung_ and nothing more.

Taehyung is still standing at the bottom, seemingly oblivious to all the whispering, all the narrowed gazes. Then his eyes fall onto Jeongguk and all of a sudden, Jeongguk can’t breathe. His chest is so tight and his throat is closing up and he can’t _breathe_.

And of course, as luck would have it, Taehyung would sit in the seat right beside his. Even though a little over a quarter of the seats are left, Taehyung just has to choose number six.

“Six,” Taehyung hums, as he settles down in his chair. Jeongguk’s sitting down but even from here he can tell that Taehyung has grown a little taller, maybe a few centimeters. From here, Taehyung is so close; his face is sharper, baby fat all but vanished, and he really does look like an actor. He looks handsome. “My stage name was almost ‘Six’, remember?”

Fuck, does Jeongguk remember. He remembers when they were still choosing their stage names, and he had almost ended up being called a fucking _seagull_ , of all things. When they had laughed for twenty minutes at the one Namjoon had chosen, when they had teased Yoongi for his.

“Hi, Jeonggukkie,” Taehyung says. He turns to Jeongguk and grins and knocks all the wind out of Jeongguk in one swift go. “We haven’t talked in a while. How’ve you been?”

 

* * *

 

Jeongguk tries to talk a bit with Taehyung, but the syllables are stiff on his tongue and he can barely remember any of it, not with the way his head is spinning each time Taehyung practically breathes into his ear. Taehyung is so close, and he is so beautiful, more beautiful than before, that Jeongguk can hardly register anything that is happening. Not when the first group goes up and blows everyone away but ends up with a poor ranking, not when a truly impressive guy pulls off an amazing freestyle, not when Yoojin leaves to prepare for his turn and Jeongguk cheers him on weakly.

After a while, Taehyung gets the message and stops trying to start a conversation with Jeongguk. Jeongguk is far too wound up to do anything right now, and he needs to focus, needs to get his mind in the right place for his audition, and soon enough, he’s being called out to the waiting room.

The nerves are nothing he hasn’t experienced before. The waiting rooms of music shows are just the same, all tight joints and suddenly your voice is hoarse and your feet feel heavy.

The performance goes well, he thinks. He does a rendition of ‘If You’ by Big Bang, accompanied by a dance he had choreographed himself (and if his hyungs had helped out a little, no one would know). He's anxious, there's no question, but he has been singing and dancing for most of his life and he misses the stage too much to let a few bundles of nerves get to him. When the trainers ask for a freestyle, they play a Bruno Mars song that he’s covered a thousand times in the darkness of his room and with the video function on his phone, so he knows the beats like the back of his hand, and they seem genuinely impressed.

“You’re really good,” BoA, the emcee, praises, and Jeongguk keens. He’s always loved praise. He doesn’t actively seek it out like Jimin did (maybe he still does?) but it always makes him swell with pride when someone says he sings really well or his dance is sharp or his face is pretty. “It’s like you’re ready to debut.”

That hit the spot. He plasters the smile on his face because even though it has been two, three years, the training is still there, and he knows that he cannot falter.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling a little wider.

“He’s so handsome,” Kahi, one of the dance trainers, says. “I remember seeing you on broadcast, you have grown up well.”

“His voice is slightly breathy, but he has a nice tone and good control,” Lee Seokhoon, the first of the vocal trainers, chimes in, though he still has a smile on his face and looks generally pleased.

He ends up being placed in A, and he feels so full and so happy. He knows it is all in the mind, but god, external validation feels so fucking good. Being told you are doing well feels so fucking good. It has been a while since he has felt like this, and he misses it.

Jeongguk returns to his seat, glowing, and Yoojin claps him on the back.

“Good job,” Yoojin smiles, even though he has an ‘F’ on his tag. But everyone has been supportive so far, and all one hundred and one of them are going through this together, and Jeongguk enjoys it. “You did really well.”

“Thanks, Yoojin-ssi,” Jeongguk replies.

“Call me hyung, no need to be so formal.”

Taehyung isn’t in his seat any longer, probably in the prep room, and so Jeongguk can finally breathe. He talks a bit with Yoojin and learns that he’s actually with Namoo Actors, and he has been in a couple of shows, but nothing big. Jeongguk can’t believe it, because Yoojin looks like a mix between Nam Joohyuk and Song Joongki, and is so incredibly _nice_ , and when he shows his Soundcloud account, Jeongguk realises he’s fucking _talented_ too, just why hasn’t he caught a break?

“Hyung, your tracks are sick.” Jeongguk’s still in awe, putting the volume on the lowest setting and bringing the phone all the way to his ear so he can enjoy the music without disturbing others. “Your rapping’s pretty smooth too.”

“I’m hoping to improve by coming here, but thank you,” Yoojin laughs. “Everyone here is so talented. It’s gonna be hard to stand out.”

Jeongguk nods, agreeing, and then tenses when BoA calls out the next contestant.

“Ah, Kim Taehyung,” she says, nodding knowingly. “An actor, right?”

“Yes,” Taehyung smiles. “But an idol first and foremost.”

Taehyung’s performance is great, a cover of Shinhwa’s ‘Perfect Man’, but Jeongguk might just be a little bit biased. His expressions are much better than the last time they had practised together, his movements much smoother, and his voice is steadier, too. The good thing is he is finally singing in his range, that nice, low baritone that reminds Jeongguk of chocolate and honey. Jeongguk wouldn’t be surprised if Taehyung learned it from GOT7 themselves; his hyung seems to collect friends like Pokemon cards.

Taehyung ends with a flourish, and the claps automatically follow. It was a good performance, better than most here, but now that Jeongguk has more than a few seconds to evaluate, it isn’t absolutely mindblowing. Taehyung is good, anyone can see that, but Jeongguk knows that not everyone will think he is great.

“Thank you very much, Taehyung-ssi,” BoA says. She has a smile on her face, at least. That is a good sign.

“No wonder he’s an actor, he’s so handsome.” Seokhoon-nim turns to the other dance trainer, Jung Hyunseung. “My heart felt all funny when he winked.”

They get Taehyung to do a freestyle too, but it’s a song with a reggae beat that even Jeongguk hasn’t heard of before, and Taehyung fumbles. But the trainers all seem to love him, and they reassure him that it is okay, it’s a hard song anyway, and he steps back with a sheepish bow and a flush across his cheeks.

“Big Hit Entertainment’s Kim Taehyung,” BoA announces, “is placed in B.”

“Thank you!” Taehyung greets, sounding genuinely happy, and bows quickly before exiting.

It feels like barely a few minutes before Taehyung returns, plopping into his seat with what feels like a mix of exhilaration and relief. It’s funny how Jeongguk can still sense how the other is feeling even after so long. The two of them had always been the closest, even though they were two years apart, even though Taehyung had a same-age friend in Jimin and a same-hometown friend in Yoongi.

“I can’t believe I got a B,” Taehyung sighs happily, sinking into his seat. “I didn’t manage to catch you before I had to go, but your performance was amazing. You deserve that A.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Jeongguk replies.

The ‘hyung’ slips out automatically. Can you even call someone whom you haven’t talked to in years your hyung? But Taehyung doesn’t seem to care, and the endearment slides right over his head.

“We should catch up some time,” Taehyung says. “I’ve caught up with everyone except you.”

“Uh,” Jeongguk fumbles, and suddenly it feels like he is fourteen all over again, stumbling into Seoul for the first time, “okay.”

“I’m glad I’m here.” A small smile spreads across Taehyung’s face, the kind that only appears when he doesn’t even know he’s smiling. “I was kinda scared when Bang-PD asked me to join, but I’m glad I followed through with it.”

“Why?” Jeongguk blurts, turning to Taehyung with an incredulous look. “Isn’t it scary, being an idol again after so long?”

Taehyung matches Jeongguk’s puzzled expression with an amused one of his own. “Why would it be scary when I have you here? We’re doing it together, aren’t we?” 

And Taehyung grins, so wide and so bright, Jeongguk can feel his heart trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what!!!! i'm back (summary sucks for now bc i just wanna post this but will probably change when i am awake at a decent hour)
> 
> it is 4am and finals are in 4 days and i have to be up in 4 hours for volunteer work but when a stroke of inspiration hits you cannot avoid it.....not everything here will be accurate wrt produce 101 (e.g. the ranks of the non-bts characters, the personalities of non-bts characters etc.) but i will try to make it as accurate as possible??? and it will play off of the weekly episodes coming out as well
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/sassyneki)!
> 
> p.s. stan lee yoojin [his soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/naykid046/cat-walk) is amazing


	2. 아직 잊지 못하고

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from: [suran - 오늘 취하면 (wine)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZHgUtKYgZI)

About a third of the boys haven’t performed when BoA announces that they will take a half hour break. Yoojin is already dozing off, head jerking up whenever it dips too low, and in front of him, Jeongguk hears a trainee listing different dishes—kimchijigae, gukbap, tteokbokki—as his friends around him groan. They’ve been filming since seven in the morning and it’s already three, almost four. 

“Want one?” Taehyung asks, palm splayed open to display a candy. Of course, after all this time, his sweet tooth is still here. 

“Uh, okay,” Jeongguk replies, hesitantly. It’s so strange talking with Taehyung, even more so that Taehyung treats Jeongguk like they never went their separate ways to begin with. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Taehyung beams. 

Jeongguk is so tired. He spent most of last night playing Overwatch, and during the day he’d been practising with the crew. He wants to take a quick nap, but it’s like Taehyung’s presence makes every hair stand on end, every muscle and tendon tense and alert. There’s no way he’s falling asleep when he feels like jumping every time Taehyung so much as breathes. 

“You’re tense,” Taehyung says. He says it like any other statement, that straightforward, direct way he’s always been. How is it that Jeongguk seems to be the only who has changed? “Relax, I’m not gonna do anything.” 

“I didn’t even say anything,” Jeongguk retorts, but it comes out like a whine.

Taehyung sighs. He raises his brows and his eyes are knowing, and it’s times like these that Jeongguk realises how much Taehyung can be a hyung when he wants to.

“I don’t wanna make this awkward.” Taehyung turns to face the front even as his shoulders slump in resignation. “Let me know if you want me to stop talking to you.” 

Pain blooms in Jeongguk’s chest and spreads like a stain.

“It’s not—I don’t hate you or anything,” Jeongguk tries. “It’s just really strange for us to act like friends after so long.”

“To ‘act’ like friends?” Taehyung spits the words out like they burn on his tongue. “So we’re not friends, then.”

“I don’t mean it that way,” Jeongguk splutters. He’s never been good with words, that’s always been Namjoon’s thing, maybe even Taehyung’s and Jimin’s, but he always seems to twist the syllables in a way that destroys everything he cares about. “We’re friends, we just haven’t acted like friends for a while.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Taehyung hisses, voice abruptly dropping to a whisper when he realises they’re getting too worked up. Most of the trainees are either sleeping or in the toilet, but that doesn’t mean no one is eavesdropping. “Look, we’ll talk about this later, okay.” 

More trainees are starting to flood back in. Jeongguk turns away and stares at the front, the giant screen, more out of shame than annoyance. And a while later, BoA announces the end of the break. 

The last wave of trainees start to perform. Honestly, as much as Jeongguk appreciates the amount of hard work that goes into every performance (god knows how many hours he’s spent in the studio, just trying to perfect that one move), the fact that there are so many one after another is taxing. Everything kind of blurs into each other, and it’s only when there’s someone he vaguely recognises or a particularly memorable performance, does he actually pay attention. So he watches the rest with a kind of vague, detached concentration. A few stand out: there is the duo of Kim Namhyung and Jeong Dongsu with their self-composed song and a tight rap, and Ong Seongwoo with his sick freestyles and stable vocals, even on a Bruno Mars song.

And then there is Jang Moonbok.  

It’s not the fact that he’s a national meme who has been bullied for attempting Outsider’s rap at twice the speed, or that Jeongguk admires him for being brave enough to be open about the depression following the cyberbullying. It’s the beat that plays the moment he greets the producers and thanks them for having him here.

“되고파 너의 오빠,” Moonbok starts, a steely glint in his eye, hair flowing. “너의 사랑이 난 너무 고파.”

Something curls tight in Jeongguk’s chest, scorching hot. Everything closes in on him and all he can hear is ‘Boy in Luv’, the lyrics that he wrote coming out of a foreign mouth. A song being performed right in front of him, that he himself will never perform again.

“Jeonggukie,” Taehyung breathes. When Jeongguk doesn’t reply, he places a hand on Jeongguk’s thigh tentatively, almost as if he’s afraid Jeongguk will shake it off.

But Jeongguk barely notices Taehyung’s touch, not when he’s too preoccupied, a burning _something_ growing in his chest. He knows he’s going to overthink this, this is what happens every goddamn time, the ‘maybe’s and ‘could have been’s, but he can’t help it. His mind is going to overdrive and he can’t move and— 

“Jeonggukie, breathe,” Taehyung whispers. This time, Jeongguk actually hears him, because Taehyung’s mouth is so close, his lips caress the shell of Jeongguk’s ear.

Jeongguk jumps in his seat slightly, and Taehyung curls back so fast there is no way he did not get whiplash.

“How come you’re not surprised?” Jeongguk asks. “You don’t look like you feel anything.”

“Moonbok’s my friend,” Taehyung says. “We went to the same high school. I’ve told you before, remember?” A sad looks flashes across his face when Jeongguk remains silent. “He asked me for help learning the choreo. My schedule was too busy to teach him in person, but I gave him tips on cleaning up.”

Moonbok doesn’t execute the choreography perfectly. His movements are stiff and his arms flail about, and his rapping tone is too sharp and urgent, but it still is ‘Boy in Luv’, that much is obvious. It still is—was?—BTS’ song. The thought that he will probably never perform it again makes his heart crumple.

“This is too much,” Jeongguk grits out.

Someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns to the left, settling his expression. Yoojin asks, “Are you okay? You two seem a little tense there.”

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk says. “Just tired.”

“They’re ending soon. I think there’s only a couple more after Moonbok-ssi’s, then we’re on to the debrief and we’re finished.”

Jeongguk nods and Yoojin turns back to watch Moonbok, who’s thanking the producers as he walks off with a grade of F. Jeongguk’s not surprised; this year’s evaluations have been particularly harsh, and he thinks he can count on a hand just how many trainees have made it into the A grade.

“Jeonggukie,” Taehyung begins. “I know it’s still weird for you to talk to me, but if you need to talk to anyone, I’m here. You know that, right?" 

“Yeah, of course, hyung,” Jeongguk replies. He turns to Taehyung, and his hyung’s large, wide eyes are soft, lips curled into a small, reassuring smile. This close, he can see the mole at the tip of Taehyung’s nose. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime,” Taehyung replies, turning back to watch as the next group of trainees files in.

“Thank you for coming down today,” BoA says, once everyone has been evaluated. It’s been a long day, and all the trainees are hungry and tired. “Moving in will be this weekend. You’ve all been roomed with trainees from the same grade, so you can all help and support each other. Your tags and official sweaters will also be in the dorms.” She smiles at everyone, and it’s like the world got a little bit brighter. “You have all worked very hard today. Rest well when you get back, and the instructors and I will see you very soon.”

Everyone starts to leave once all the instructors have exited. Amidst all the commotion, a hundred chairs being shifted out of their place, a hundred and one boys scurrying out to the nearest kimbap shop, Taehyung finds him. 

“See you soon,” Taehyung says, briskly walking. Probably another schedule; Jeongguk’s not surprised Taehyung is busy, he always knew his hyung would be successful.  “I still haven’t forgotten about our catch-up session.”

Taehyung smiles and leaves, but not before briefly curling his fingers into Jeongguk’s for a second or two. As he watches Taehyung walk away, Jeongguk doesn’t know if the racing of his pulse is from the heat of the crowd, or something else.

 

* * *

 

The weekend comes in a few days, during which Jeongguk finds time to head down to Han River and perform a few Zion.T songs on his acoustic guitar. It’s a cheap, second-hand one that he found off the internet, because he is still a broke student, after all, but he loves Widow almost as much as he loves Cloud, his dog back home.

Moving in day is hectic. The compound itself is a little ways away from the center of Seoul, but still secluded enough, a single building located near the entertainment district, where all the broadcasting stations are. It’s six storeys in total, and there really is nothing that can prepare you for the sight of a hundred boys running around with giant suitcases, trying to figure out where their rooms are.  

Mnet had emailed them earlier with the room assignments. All they needed to do was head down to the office before Saturday to collect their locker and room keys, and pack what they needed. Everyone’s here with suitcases, but Jeongguk only has a larger-than-average camouflage-patterned backpack. It’s not like they will be staying here for long stretches, anyway. They only need to be at the training center when filming is going on. And to be honest, Jeongguk still finds this whole process of throwing trainees into a Hunger Games-esque scenario a little morally dubious, so he’s not keen on spending all that much time in the dorms themselves. 

His room is on the second floor, along with the other A trainees. There are a total of eight A trainees now, if he remembers. He can’t recall all their names nor faces, but he’s pretty sure the producers will get the bunch of them to meet soon.

The training center itself is the entire building. There are six studios in total, they were told, two on the first floor and three in the basement, along with a reception area, a main assembly hall, and a cafeteria. Dorms are from levels two to six, with each grade assigned a particular floor.

“Hello,” he greets, when he realises there’s already someone in the room. He’s got a cap on, and his face, while handsome, is the quiet, muted kind, no features standing out in particular. “I’m Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m Kim Namhyung,” the boy replies, a smile forming from his small mouth. A deep voice. A rapper, maybe. “Nice to meet you.” 

It takes him a few seconds to recognise who exactly [Namhyung](http://img.kpopmap.com/wp-content/uploads_kpopmap/2017/03/produce-101-season-2-trainee-profile-photos-KIM-NAMHYUNG.jpg) is. The rapper in the duo, he realises with a start, the one that performed their own song, and he’d ended the dance sitting on the ground, back facing the audience, fingers hooked into the edges of his sweater to flip the hood back up onto his head.

“I’m from Kairos Entertainment.” Namhyung says out of nowhere. He sounds a little hesitant, like he doesn’t really know what to say. Well, this makes two quiet people in the dorm. “What company are you from?” 

“I’m independent,” Jeongguk replies. “Are you the rapper? You guys did your own song, right?”

Namhyung lights up. He reminds Jeongguk of Yoongi a bit, the way his eyes gleam and curl when music is mentioned.

“We did,” he says excitedly. “That was Dongsu-hyung. We were in this group called Offroad.” 

“Were?” 

“Yeah, we’re just kinda,” he makes some gestures with his hands, “floating? I don’t know. The company hasn’t given us much stuff to do in Korea, we did more promotions in Japan. We’re doing more tracks with our crew, mostly. 420c, if you’ve heard of us.”

He gets so excited when he talks, it’s pretty adorable, actually. A contrast to his rather quiet look.

“I’m in a crew too, kind of?” Jeongguk throws his bag to the ground and sits on the edge of the bed. There are three bunk beds, but he’s more of a bottom bunk person. Since he’s here early, he might as well take advantage of it. “But it’s not a hip hop crew? We just busk and dance sometimes. Mostly Hongdae, sometimes Han River on the weekends when it gets too crowded near the university.”

“Ah, that’s cool. I used to bboy with a dance crew too, but now I just kinda do it on my own.” Then he adds, “You can call me hyung, by the way. You look really young.”

“I’ve graduated,” Jeongguk fights. 

“Yeah, from high school, probably,” Namhyung scoffs. “I’m a ‘93-liner.”

“I’m a ‘97-liner,” Jeongguk sulks. But it’s not like he doesn’t like being the young one all the time. It’s actually pretty nice. 

“I’m your hyung then, Jeongguk-ah.”

Jeongguk is about to reply when someone else enters. His face is sharp and handsome, more actor than idol.

“Hi guys, I’m [Ong Seongwoo](http://img.kpopmap.com/wp-content/uploads_kpopmap/2016/12/produce-101-season-2-profile-members-lineup-2017-ong-seongwu.jpg),” he introduces, “from Fantagio.”

Fantagio, the agency that handles more actors than it does idol groups. No wonder. 

Jeongguk and Namhyung introduce themselves, and it’s with a start that Jeongguk realises Seongwoo is the one who did the sick freestyle popping thing while singing Bruno Mars. It’s kind of amazing, the amount of talent here. He’s rooming with a guy who’s been promoting for five years and doubles up with a hip hop crew, and another who has done CFs and graduated university with degrees in both Dance and Acting. Jeongguk feels inferior, but that’s nothing new. 

Seongwoo takes the last of the three bottom bunks, chucking his suitcase noisily onto the bed and immediately unpacking everything. Jeongguk casts Namhyung a look; their room had been pretty neat, almost empty, before Seongwoo entered. Looks like it’s two neat freaks and one messy person so far.

“Do you know if anyone else is rooming here?” Seongwoo asks.

“Not that I know,” Namhyung replies. He leans against the wall and stretches out his legs. “No one said anything.” 

“Same here,” Seongwoo huffs, plopping onto the bed. He’s handsome, but his actions are kind of adorable. “All this secrecy shit is getting annoying. If you’re gonna throw me to the wolves, at least tell me what’s gonna happen.”

Jeongguk hums in agreement, not much energy left to complain about the woes of the entertainment industry. It’s been a while since he has dipped his toes into this whole… idol thing.

“We’re supposed to go down to the hall at two, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, and the cafeteria’s not serving lunch today,” Namhyung comments, pouting a little.  

“Seriously?” Seongwoo exclaims, pulling a face. “That’s shitty.”

“It’s Messnet, what’d you expect,” Namhyung replies.  

“Guys, look at this,” Jeongguk says, opening the wardrobe tucked into the corner of the first level of each bunk. There are three sweaters inside, a pretty pastel pink. “There are only three in here, looks like we’re the only ones.”

“Nice,” Namhyung whistles. “Although I’d have liked black or grey myself.” 

“Basic,” Seongwoo sings. Jeongguk laughs as Namhyung sticks out his tongue.

Jeongguk is glad. It’s been a while since he has been the youngest, and with Namhyung and Seongwoo both older than him, it’s nice to be babied every now and then. He misses this, he realises. The sheer hecticness of dorm life, how intense and messy it can get when you throw so many boys into a single room together.

They get lunch after, where they head down to a nearby kimbap shop that already has a few trainees crowding in. Jeongguk doesn’t know their names, but Namhyung greets a boy in a hoodie and a buzzcut like an old friend, and Jeongguk finds out that they are indeed old friends. 

“Jeongguk, Seongwoo, this is Dongsu-hyung,” Namhyung introduces. “We’re both in Offroad together.” 

“Nice to meet you guys,” [Dongsu](http://img.kpopmap.com/wp-content/uploads_kpopmap/2017/03/produce-101-season-2-trainee-profile-photos-JEONG-DONGSOO.jpg) replies, and when he smiles, he resembles a really happy puppy. He gestures to the guys beside him. “We’re roommates too. This is Daniel, Sewoon, and Jongyeon.”  

[The tall one](http://img.kpopmap.com/wp-content/uploads_kpopmap/2016/12/produce-101-season-2-profile-members-lineup-2017-kang-daniel.jpg) with pastel pink hair the colour of their grade A sweaters and long, thin monolids grins at them and looks at Namhyung. “Hey, I know you. You were from that bboy crew, right? I watched lots of your stuff back then.”

“That was years ago,” Namhyung replies. “I’m not with them any more, but thanks, it’s nice to hear at least someone knows our stuff.”

Jeongguk knows the feeling.

“You’re Jeongguk-ssi?” [the palest of them all](http://www.asianjunkie.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/HanJongYeon.jpg), with a slightly hooked nose and an eyesmile, asks. “You were in BTS, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I was…” Jeongguk trails off. “Jongyeon-ssi?”

“Just call me Jongyeon, I think we’re both ‘97-liners,” Jongyeon laughs. He sees the vaguely suspicious look Jeongguk gives him and quickly adds, “My sister was a huge fan of you guys. You were her favourite too, I think. She’d always go ‘Oppa, debut quickly, you’ll be same age friends with Jeongguk-oppa!’”

Jeongguk forces a laugh. Jongyeon is nice, but it sucks to be reminded of his failures.

He learns that the last boy is [Jung Sewoon](https://i1.wp.com/www.kpopscene.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/jung-se-woon-01.jpg?resize=273%2C273), who’d appeared on Kpop Star or Superstar K or one of those many, many talent shows before. He has a thin, sweet voice and perks up when Jeongguk mentions busking, going on a long spiel about the indie scene and the best place for acoustics. Halfway through, Jeongguk finds his heart mellowing out a little; it’s a pity, that most of these trainees, both passionate and hardworking, are going to get shafted. Editing is a bitch, and getting the nation to like you, even if you get screentime, isn’t easy.

It’s nice, eating with people again. These days he mostly sits by himself at convenience stores or packs kimbap away from shops, because he doesn’t mind eating alone, but he minds eating alone when others aren’t doing so. His friends from the crew all have school or university, and they simply don’t have the time to take an hour out just so Jeongguk doesn’t have to eat alone.  

It doesn’t help that Jeongguk closes in on himself whenever he’s near strangers. His hyungs from BTS had brought out the beagle in him, but after everyone had left, it’s like the iron walls have been put up all over again.

When they’re done, they head back to the training center together, and after changing into the sweaters and sticking on their shiny new tags, they head down to the filming studio. It’s the same place as when they’d had the ranking evaluations, except now the chairs have been stacked into a corner and everyone is milling about instead of slotting themselves into some kind of predetermined hierarchy.

“This is a little scary,” Jeongguk admits. “We didn’t even see the other grade As come down. Were they that quick?”

“I think they’re just really anxious and eager,” Namhyung says. “I talked to Park Woojin for a bit before. The guy from Brand New? He’s nice but him and all the younger ones are so—” he does something with his hands, before giving up, “—scary? Ambitious? I don’t know how to put it. Maybe I’m too old for this kind of competitiveness." 

“Speak for yourself,” Seongwoo replies, squeezing between them and slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “I’ll fight fire with fire.”

Jeongguk unconsciously seeks out Taehyung. It’s almost a natural instinct, his eyes automatically flying to anyone with blond hair and tan skin, and he thinks the blurry figure rushing in just as everyone is lining up might be Taehyung. A rush of warmth through his chest, and Jeongguk hates himself a little for missing his hyung so much. 

The producers hand out the lyric sheets, and they’re shown the choreography. It’s not super hard, but it’s definitely fast and harder-hitting than the original ‘Pick Me’.

“One and two and three and four,” Hyungseung-nim says.

He’s already going at full speed and they’ve only gone through the moves three times. Jeongguk looks around him, and while most of the A trainees are doing okay, managing to keep up, Seongwoo’s struggling to even catch the moves. It’s not surprising, if Jeongguk’s honest. Those who prefer freestyle tend to stumble more with choreography, at least at the start. 

It’s been a while since he has done idol choreography. He’ll admit that it’s fun, but the pressure of a hundred eyes bearing down on you, knowing you have to compete with them, is daunting. A few minutes later and they’re given an hour to practice on their own before a ‘mini-showcase’, something that Jeongguk thinks is unnecessary, given how some people can barely catch the first eight counts.

“Jeonggukie,” someone says, once everyone starts to mingle around and clean up the choreography with each other. A deep voice, like chocolate and wine, and Jeongguk doesn’t even need to turn to know who it is.  
  
“Hyung,” Jeongguk replies, soft. They’re near the left of the room so it’s not like they’ll catch anyone’s attention, but this is Mnet, and they were ex-group members. If anything happens, it will definitely go on air. “How are your roommates?” 

“They’re really nice,” Taehyung grins, wide and rectangular, like he doesn’t know how Jeongguk’s chest hurts each time he does it. “Kim Jaehwan, he was on Korea’s Got Talent, his voice is amazing. I want him to sing me to sleep. And the tiny maknae, Lee Woojin, you remember him? He’s adorable.” His eyes are shining, and Jeongguk gets a sudden urge to hold him. “Oh, and Ha Minho! He’s a rapper and he’s got this really nice voice. Reminds me of Bobby.”

“I’m with Ong Seongwoo and Kim Namhyung,” Jeongguk says. He doesn’t know why, but he’s glad it’s easier to talk to Taehyung now. At least he doesn’t feel like running away every other second. “Fantagio guy and black hoodie guy.”

“I think I know who you’re talking about.” Taehyung grabs his wrist and tugs him, and it burns, but Jeongguk doesn’t let it show. “Teach me a bit, won’t you? I can’t keep up.” 

“You’re lying.” Jeongguk affords a weak smile. “You always learned fast, sometimes even faster than Hobi-hyung.”  

Taehyung stops when they reach a relatively empty corner. At Jeongguk’s words, he casts Jeongguk a look, eyes hooded and gaze undecipherable. Squeezes Jeongguk’s wrist one last time before releasing it.

“Sometimes, I think you forget how long it’s been,” Taehyung says. His voice sounds like it comes from far away, and so do his eyes. Then he focuses back on Jeongguk and smiles and all is well again, even if it is not the same. “Anyway, help me out, yeah? I keep losing the beat in the third eight.” 

“Of course,” Jeongguk says. And before he can stop it, the force of habit, it slips out, “Anything for you, hyung.”

He hopes Taehyung doesn’t notice the way he swallows audibly after saying it, like he wants to snatch the words back from thin air and tuck them away. He thinks he sees something flash across Taehyung’s eyes, but he can’t tell if he wants that to be reality or illusion, not when the ghost of Taehyung’s grip around his wrist still burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm adding links to pictures of the trainees that jeongguk talks with personally; previous chapter, added for lee yoojin. also, will refer to the instructors who don't use stage names with -nim from now on, to make it more obvious that they're instructors. + added some new tags lol foreshadowing
> 
> not that much happens in this chapter, but it's important for setting the basis and if you're sharp you can see some allusions to taeguk's past. also!!!! all the trainees are precious pls love them lots
> 
> and dw i know it has been a little more than a week BUT less than two, so the plan is to update every 1-2 weeks. the plot will generally follow the real pd101's
> 
> thank you for reading and commenting and kudos'ing and subscribing and bookmarking!!!!! i really appreciate it, come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/sassyneki) !


	3. 난 살아있는 꽃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to: [artificial flower - eddy kim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXNdSqILa6M)

Everyone works hard. The short one, two years that Jeongguk had spent toiling away in the actual industry itself had taught him much too well. Not many people take the entertainment path, but those who do lose sleep over it for more reasons than one. Everyone works themselves to the bone, but only a few even get paid.  

He remembers overhearing in the changing rooms, some group or another, talking about their first ever payment. Voice laced with excitement, like twelve dollars a month was something to be happy about.

It’s the same here too, Jeongguk thinks, as he looks around at everyone memorising the choreography. It’s only been maybe one hour since they’ve learnt the whole thing proper, and already he can see some of the weaker trainees breaking down. A few bodies bent over another, smaller one, that’s crouched in the corner. Someone weeping as they lip-sync the chorus and mark the movements. Jeongguk never thought he’d be back in the pressure cooker again, but here he is anyway.

“I think you’ve got it,” he says to Taehyung. Jeongguk doesn’t remember Taehyung ever taking this long to learn a new choreo, but maybe more has changed than he’s thought.  

“Thanks, Gukkie,” Taehyung beams. It’s the same face he made when Jeongguk helped him learn Yoongi’s verse in Cypher Part 3, not that they ever managed to perform it live anyway. “Sorry about this. I’m a bit rusty.” 

Taehyung has always kind of been the secret member of their dance line. He had been the quickest at picking up new choreography, second only to Hoseok, and he had a way of falling in time with the music that Jeongguk, who relied on counts and beats and hours after hours of memorisation, envied. Jeongguk hasn’t exactly caught up with what Taehyung was doing—a part of him thinks that if he did, his heart would break—but from what he sees now, dancing was probably not part of the picture.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it,” Taehyung says wistfully. Almost like he’s talking to himself, except his piercing gaze is directed right at Jeongguk and it makes Jeongguk shiver. “How everyone is here for that one fighting chance? But we’ve had that chance, and we lost it, and now we’re looking for it again.”

“Why are you really here, hyung?” Jeongguk asks.

“Maybe I’ll tell you next time.” 

They go through the rest of the choreography in relative peace, interrupted only by a guy who shyly introduces himself as [Park Jihoon](http://thumb.pann.com/tc_480/http://fimg4.pann.com/new/download.jsp?FileID=40674954), and proceeds to tell Taehyung how much he really looks up to him because his expressions on stage were always phenomenal. The whole time, Jeongguk stands at one side and marvels at how Taehyung attracts attention even when he’s out of the limelight, tucked into the corner of a musky studio with too many boys.

Soon enough, they’re called up to line up according to their grades and do a short showcase. Jeongguk is sandwiched somewhere near the side between Seongwoo, who bounces on the balls of his feet eagerly, and Samuel, who is strangely calm.  

“Grade A, please show us what you have so far,” BoA says.

The music starts, and the start of the choreography is not so bad; a little fast, and Jeongguk knows he might be out of breath if they have to sing and dance, but he doesn’t fumble. He can’t tell how the other trainees do either, but Samuel seems to go through the movements smoothly whilst Seongwoo looks like he’s marking rather than executing the full dance.

When they finish, gasps and exclamations of “What the fuck? How’d they learn so fast?” come from the trainees in the other grades. Pride swells in his chest, a kind of fullness he hasn’t been familiar in a long while.

The rest of the filming passes in a blur. The other trainees have their hand at the choreography, but most of them have barely got the hang of it. Jeongguk keeps his eye on Taehyung (not like he could ever keep his eyes off, anyway) and finds that aside from not using full power, Taehyung more or less has the entire choreography down pat. And when the song finishes for the B grade, he swears he sees Taehyung staring right at him.

 

* * *

 

The next day, they get their schedule for this week of filming. Their week is packed, no time for anything else other than the vocal and dance classes, and he knows the industry well enough that everyone will sleep barely one or two hours, practising through the night. So when he stumbles into the practice room in the morning with Seongwoo and Namhyung, still groggy from the last night of sneaking out for soju and odeng, he’s barely registering anything at all.

“Wow, there are so few of us,” Seongwoo breathes. The rest chuckle tentatively, but Jeongguk laughs so hard his stomach hurts; it’s only been a while, but he has shared lunch with Seongwoo often enough to know that despite the cool, handsome facade, Seongwoo is a meme.

Everyone is ten minutes early (why is everyone so fucking _competitive_ , Jeongguk wonders), so they take the time to introduce themselves. There are only eight of them: [Sungwoon](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C62REYDWsAIcu6k.jpg), [Taehyun](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C62QYGgWsAE1s2N.jpg), [Samuel](http://www.allkpop.com/upload/2017/03/af_org/punch_1489557558_af_org.jpg), [Daehwi](https://em.wattpad.com/248a04811c85e85257c5de5b813681d2d134eec0/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4b56714c36686d7849557a3237413d3d2d3338333435333631372e313461616239616636613866623139373930303639333938373931302e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280), [Woojin](https://em.wattpad.com/f5072dce6b45b8e274a0656efc52e492f4c92f55/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f7070586b4d4d4d755956564155413d3d2d3338333533333730302e313461616239666531396336386366323837383337373239353235312e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280), Namhyung, Seongwoo, and Jeongguk himself. 

“I’m Jeon Jeongguk, nice to meet you all,” Jeongguk introduces, when it comes to his turn.

“Were you from BTS?” Lee Daehwi, young and eager, asks.  

Jeongguk’s chest tightens, and he feels a pang of hurt. It’s not Daehwi’s fault, Jeongguk knows, the question is brewing in everyone’s minds. He’d be curious too, if he were them. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn, though. 

“Yes, I was,” Jeongguk replies, calm. He’s learned how to transform his face into a mask over the past couple of years. “I just finished high school, and I’m preparing for university now.” 

“I really like your voice,” Daehwi smiles.

Seokhoon-nim enters soon after, and one by one, they demonstrate what they’ve practised on their own. The song itself, Jeongguk thinks, is unfairly high. Few people can hit the notes, if at all, and those who do are clearly straining.

Something twists in him, too, when he realises that each person is trying to outdo the previous one. He hates stress. He doesn’t thrive on stress, he crumbles underneath the pressure. And he knows that this is a competition, he’s not stupid, and he’s been under stress before—before debut, during their promotions, even in the months following their disbandment—but that doesn’t make being thrown into the fire any worse.

“Jeongguk-ssi, show us what you’ve got,” Seokhoon-nim says.

Jeongguk startles, but composes himself before anyone notices anything—the panic in his eyes, or the rapid-fire pulsing of his heart—and does as best as he can. He, too, strains when it comes to the chorus, and he knows his breathy voice isn’t the best for this song.

“Put less air into your voice,” Seokhoon-nim tells him. “Use your head voice more, instead of your throat. You’re a tenor, you have the range.” 

Jeongguk wishes. He’s self-relegated to smooth, R&B tunes with a narrow range now, prefers them over the belting ballads that Korea seems to love so much, and he’s not used to the terms ‘resonance’ and ‘support’ after so long. But there’s not much point in arguing, so he simply nods and slinks back into line.

Seongwoo is the last to go, tucked as he is in the end of the line, and his voice is clear and bright. He reaches the high notes in the chorus, still with a bit of strain, but less so than the rest. When Seokhoon-nim comments on his range, he smiles and says that he has no problem hitting high notes; anyone else, and Jeongguk would have side-eyed them for that faux-arrogance, but Seongwoo’s tone is joking and he has the skills to back it up.

During their lunch break, Jeongguk thinks. The young ones are bursting with energy, and he’s not used to being around anyone born after 2000, how are they not still in diapers?

“I still can’t believe you guys are so young,” Jeongguk breathes, shaking his head when Daehwi demonstrates a really lame magic trick involving half his thumb magically disappearing. “And you’re not even the youngest.” 

“You’re only four years older, hyung,” Daehwi replies. He sulks when Woojin pulls his mouth tight and tells him that trick is _not cool at all, Daehwi-ya, you’ve done it thirty times back in the Brand New studio_.

The food isn’t fantastic, but with the way everyone is wolfing everything down like they haven’t eaten for months, one would think they are having a five-star meal. Simply stir-fried spicy pork, and it reminds Jeongguk of the convenience store bentos he would get from the CU outside the Big Hit building, even after they had debuted. (Just because they were sleeping less did not mean they were earning any more.) He barely touches it, and when Sungwoon asks if he can have Jeongguk’s leftovers, he pushes his plate over with a half-hearted smile.

 

* * *

 

When the day ends, Jeongguk collapses onto his bed. Namhyung and Seongwoo grumble about how tired and sore they will be the next day, but Jeongguk barely has energy to do that at all; he’d much rather save his energy for something more important, like sleeping.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk curses, the only thing he’s willing to spare energy for, “it’s already four.”

“We signed up for this,” Seongwoo yawns, stretching like a cat, legs tangled around the bed post. “And we need to be up at nine.”

Fatigue weighs on his shoulders and sinks in his bones. He’s not used to this sort of training, not after years of staying still. After a full day in the practice rooms, already, it feels like the polished wooden floors and full-length mirrors are his home once again. His body is tired but his heart is full. Swells with the satisfaction of giving his all, knows that the aches and sores the next morning are a small trade-off for the kind of sated contentedness that comes with practising hard.

The dorm is larger than he is used to. There is too much room, too much space for his thoughts to wander. In his musky, cramped goshiwon, it’s easy to forget and leave everything out the front door; here, everything follows him in.

It’s like his trainee days all over again, shoved into a room with three bunk beds and too many boys, falling asleep to the sound of light snoring and the occasional sleeptalk.

The difference is that there is no one to talk to. Namhyung and Seongwoo are fast asleep, used to the crowdedness of a dorm as they are, and even if they weren’t Jeongguk hardly thinks he should tell them how he feels. Hell, he’d be damned if _he_ even understands how he feels. And maybe it’s a bad habit, it probably is, but he can’t fall asleep when his skull feels like caving in.

The tightness in his chest is strange. He remembers how, back then, he’d talk it out with one of his hyungs. They knew what they were all going through, and they were going through it _together_. How they’d sat at the convenience store and talk about how they were going to earn money, while barrelling their way through a cup of instant noodles. And the thought pulls his ribs even tighter, because these things—all these flashbacks, sudden pangs of nostalgia and what-ifs—they hadn’t really hit him, not until now, when he’s thrown back into the cutthroat world of the idol industry once again.

And the rest of the week is the same: a cycle of wake up, go for class, float his way through breaks, more classes, and then collapsing when the dawn is just starting to break. Jeongguk feels the laziest out of everyone, sleeping an average of four hours, and he wonders just how he’d sustained this sort of schedule for years on end. 

Throughout it all, he barely sees Taehyung. And maybe Taehyung really has changed more than he thought; old Taehyung would have bombarded his phone with message after message, but this new Taehyung is terrifyingly silent.

“Jeongguk-ah, are you okay?” Sungwoon asks. His glasses are on the edge of slipping off his nose, and sweat is dripping from his forehead. “You seem worried.” 

“Nah, I’m fine,” Jeongguk replies. “Thanks, hyung.”

Sungwoon pauses for a few seconds before settling down beside Jeongguk. “I don’t know if this is the right time or place to say this, but,” he bites his lower lip, “I’m friends with Jimin.”

“Jimin-hyung?”

“Yes,” Sungwoon confirms. “We still meet up with Jongin and Taemin sometimes. I want to know if it’s okay for me to tell him that you’re here.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know Sungwoon all that well, but he figures he should have expected this sooner or later. The name Ha Sungwoon rings only a slight bell, but it’s there nevertheless, buried somewhere, syllables embedded in Jimin’s voice.

“Oh, right,” Jeongguk says, after what seems to have been too long. Sungwoon frowns, brows pulled tight. “Uh, that’s okay, I guess?” The words spill out, and there’s nothing Jeongguk can do to stop them.

Sungwoon lifts an eyebrow, as if he’s doubting whether Jeongguk’s really sure, but he leaves when Taehyun calls him back to clean up another move.  

The wall is cold against his back, even through the sweater. Jeongguk doesn’t know what he’s just done, but he figures that Jimin is going to find out eventually anyway, when they air this goddamn show. And if Jimin doesn’t already know, Jeongguk would be surprised, because he’d always been close to Taehyung in a way that Jeongguk never was and probably never will be.  

“I wonder how the others are doing,” Seongwoo ponders out loud, flopping down next to Jeongguk on the floor. Maybe it’s a 95-liner thing, the way they warm up to everyone so easily.

“I dunno,” Jeongguk replies. He stretches his legs out and touches his toes, but doesn’t get much further than that. Over in a corner, Taehyun is splayed in a side split while checking his phone, Sungwoon sitting moodily on one of his legs to keep it down. “I hope they’re doing good.”

“I don’t know if you can say anyone in this show is ‘doing good’,” Seongwoo laughs. “But I’m excited for everything to really start. For the show to broadcast and everything, I mean.” 

It’s a while before Jeongguk replies, and by that time, Seongwoo is already back with the rest, going through the choreography.  

“Me too,” Jeongguk says to himself. The words settle on his tongue for a bit before he finally gets comfortable with the sound. “Yeah, me too.”

 

* * *

 

The early sigh of thunder is what wakes Jeongguk up on the day of re-evaluations. Not the sound of quickening footsteps, Namhyung practising the moves again and again, or Seongwoo singing under his breath. Maybe he should be more worried about how his drive is nonexistent, but he’s already memorised the moves and the lyrics, what else is there to do, except let the slow drawl of the oncoming rain lull him from sleep?

“What time is it?” he asks, rolling over onto his stomach. He’d been a deep sleeper, once upon a time. Not any more, he realises, when merely a low grumble from the sky can rouse him awake.

“Four-thirty,” Seongwoo replies, pausing in the middle of the verse. He squints out the window. “The sun’s coming up, but the rain’s getting heavier.”

Jeongguk rolls onto his back and stretches, muscles sore and tense. Two and a half more hours before breakfast is served in the canteen, and four before they have to report to the training center. Amidst the sounds of Seongwoo whining about how he’s hungry and Namhyung digging through his bag for snacks with an exasperated sigh, Jeongguk allows himself the small comfort of falling back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Re-evaluations go as expected. Everyone in the A class does well, and it’s only when it comes to his turn that Jeongguk realises just how fucked he is. He can see the sheer amount of hard work and effort every single trainee put into practising; and it’s not so much that he is worried about himself, it’s the guilt that suffocates him every second, the feeling that he doesn’t deserve to be in the same class as the rest of them. 

“Hello, nation’s producers, my name is Jeon Jeongguk,” he greets.

The music starts, and everything happens automatically. When the first beat drops his body moves with it, and so does his mouth, and everything is over before he can process what has occurred. He thinks he did a good job, but he can’t be sure, not until he looks over the video again and again and pinpoints exactly where his angles were off.  

The rest clap when he bows once again and scurries out of the frame, but it’s more out of politeness than anything, so he can’t be sure and he doesn’t know whether he did well or not, fucking hell, and this is when the nerves really start to hit—did he do okay? Did he mess up? Did he miss that one step that he spent hours drilling into his body and making sure his muscles remembered every small detail? Fuck, he probably did, didn’t he, he should have practised until the day broke like everyone else.

Before he can crumple into a ball and start wallowing in self-pity, someone claps him on the back and tells him he did a good job, and he feels himself calming down. 

“Thanks, Woojin,” he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he tried.

Today is a short day. They have only the re-evaluations to film before having the rest of the day off, and it’s only two days later that they will receive the results; after all, there are one hundred videos to look through. That sort of critique and relentless criticism takes time. 

The A class boys all agreed to head out for a nice dinner, because even though there were only eight of them, filming had taken the entire day. Jeongguk is starving by the time he’s changed into his t-shirt and jeans, sick of the same old stir-fried pork they keep feeding them. He’s craving something different. It doesn’t have to be expensive, it just has to be something other than kimchi jjigae or bulgogi.

“Barbeque?” Samuel suggests, when they’ve all gathered outside the dorms and are browsing through Naver for a place to eat. The other trainees are still filming their re-evaluations, and the compound is empty. “There’s a good one nearby.”

Someone lets out a long, drawn-out whimper. The idea of samgyeopsal is tempting, and Jeongguk can already feel his stomach calling out for it.

As they walk to the restaurant (“It’s only ten minutes from here,” Samuel reassured them) is the first time Jeongguk gets a chance to check his phone. He’s flooded with messages from his busking group, telling him to fight on and remember his drills and treat them once he debuts proper. (His heart hurts a bit. He’s debuted before, and he doubts that he did it proper.) Another is from his hyung back in Busan, nothing but a photo of a drawing he’d done recently of Gureum. Jeongguk promptly saves that one into his phone. 

And then, at the bottom, a message from someone he hasn’t spoken to in a long while. Hell, he hasn’t even seen him around; he’s heard of what the rest were doing, whispers here and there, but not this particular hyung. 

**From: Yoongi-hyung**

jimin told me

let's get lamb skewers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp it's been 1.5 months.....i'm sorry
> 
> i've been in a writing rut as of late, i guess. words aren't coming as easy and i'm not really sure why, but all my creative shit has been hard....i'm trying tho!!! also keeping up with p101 too so come scream with me. hopefully i can post 1 chapter every 1-2 weeks, since it's summer now. i've been in korea for a few weeks and will be staying here for a couple more, to learn korean, and i have classes everyday so time has been hard too
> 
> not that much taekook in this chapter, but it's more of jeongguk settling in with a new group of friends whilst simultaneously kinda-sorta returning to the tough as fuck trainee days. hope y'all get to know the new boys too hehe if you don't watch p101 and yes! be excited for the next chapter
> 
> anyway!!!! HAPPY 4 YEARS WITH BTS AAAAAAA ADKSHAFJLSDHFKJASLDKJFN
> 
> come find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/sassyneki)!


	4. 지금의 침묵은 기회일까 내 기대일까?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to: [gondry - hyukoh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3RAU0T2RC4)

In high school, there is always that one senior that everyone looks up to. It was the case in American movies that Namjoon had forced them to watch, and it’s the case with anywhere else in life, Jeongguk has realised. Yoongi was always that one untouchable hyung: he worked hard, he was effortlessly cool (simply because he barely even tried), and he was talented. On the best of days he was a tiger, crouched low, concentration at full force; on his worst ones, he was delicate, a sleeping predator.

Over time, he’d actually gotten closer to Yoongi. They liked the same things even if their personalities were different, and slowly but surely, Jeongguk had managed to coax him out for lamb skewer outings. Maybe he’s the hyung that Jeongguk is least outwardly affectionate with, but something about him and Yoongi just seemed to click.

But the breaking up, the going of separate ways, the stepping onto diverged roads—whatever you want to call it, it had created the largest of rifts. And whilst he had at least heard of Taehyung acting or Namjoon collaborating with Gaeko or seen Hoseok in the background of 1Million videos, Yoongi’s activities have been terrifyingly silent. 

Maybe it’s his own fault for not bothering to seek out his hyungs, or to catch up, but it’s always like this, isn’t it? All it takes is one crack for everything to come crumbling down. 

**From: Yoongi-hyung**

jeongguk-ah

you’re not replying

He stares at his phone for two minutes. He’s blue-ticked Yoongi for two minutes.

He should have figured that Yoongi and Jimin would keep in touch. If anything, Jimin was clearly Yoongi’s favourite dongsaeng. They were not as playful as Hoseok and his three children, nor did he launch into inspirational spiels every so often like Namjoon, or randomly force-feed peanut butter toast to everyone while they were half-asleep in the car like Seokjin, but Yoongi had a hell of a soft spot for Jimin. Looks like he still does.

(Jeongguk figures everyone else probably kept in touch, except him. Something curls in his chest and twists hard.)

Maybe he should reply. He received the first text yesterday, almost twelve hours ago, and even if Jeongguk never replies his messages, everyone knows that he always sees them. He’s either lazy or avoiding something, and BTS knows him well enough to know that. 

**To: Yoongi-hyung**

okay

i’m only free tomorrow though 

That is true, at least. Only one more day before they receive the results of their re-evaluation, and from then on it’s just practice and practice and the final filming for their stage.

“Jeonggukie, get back here,” Seongwoo calls out. He contorts his face into the weirdest shape despite how sharply handsome he is, and Jeongguk is reminded of Taehyung and his strange facial expressions with a jolt. “We’re going through the choreo again.”

“Alright, hyung,” Jeongguk replies, stowing his phone in a corner. Maybe if he immerses himself in practice enough he will stop feeling like he’s about to enter purgatory.

 

* * *

  

They meet somewhere in Mapo, near the streets of Hongdae. It’s a place they have never been before; lamb skewers were always eaten somewhere in Gangnam, in the middle of the night when they’re hungry from twelve hours of practice, somewhere near their office. Hongdae is different. It is where all the young people are, and as Jeongguk watches groups of friends laugh over the magician pulling an actual raccoon out of a hat, he realises how much he has missed.

“Jeongguk-ah,” someone says. A hoarse voice, raspier than before, but warm and familiar all the same.

Yoongi is small, as usual. Maybe even smaller, now that Jeongguk has a better look; his skin is pale and glowing like before, but his jawline sharper and the bones in his wrists look like twigs fighting to escape thin skin. Black hair tucked beneath a cap, swathed in a giant black parka, a black mask pulled halfway down his face: even without the voice, Jeongguk can recognise his hyung straight away.

“Yoongi-hyung,” Jeongguk says, but his voice cracks on the last syllable and his heart falls with it, “it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, you brat,” Yoongi replies, tone teasing. He leans against the wall and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He holds out a stick to Jeongguk experimentally, and he raises his brows when Jeongguk takes it between his fingers. “You smoke?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Picked it up a few months after.”  _ After we disbanded _ .

“No wonder you don’t sound like a twelve-year old any more,” Yoongi remarks, words muffled as he sticks the cigarette between his teeth. A puff of smoke escapes his lips, thin and chapped, as he continues, “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”

A few moments of silence as Jeongguk struggles to light up his cigarettes with gloved fingers, cursing the frigid Seoul winter. “Jimin told you?”

“Mhm,” Yoongi hums. 

“And Sungwoon-hyung told Jimin?”

Yoongi nods. 

“I’m surprised Tae didn’t tell him,” Jeongguk mumbles, exhaling. “I thought they’re close.”

“They are.” He gives Jeongguk a pointed look, eyes narrowed but face relaxed, and Jeongguk has no idea what to make of it. “But you know Taehyung has always been different with you.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know how to answer.  

They head to the lamb skewer place once their cigarettes have finished, crushing them underneath their feet and into the pavement, icy from slush. It’s a small place, tucked somewhere in a quieter part of Hongdae where all the alleys and boutiques and handmade silver jewellery are.  

“Four portions of lamb skewers, please,” Yoongi tells the server, the way he always did when they used to go out together years ago. “And two pints of beer.” 

“Why’d you call me out here, hyung?” Jeongguk asks. 

“You know,” Yoongi begins, like Jeongguk didn’t say anything at all. “It’s weird. Of all people to fall off the earth completely, I didn’t think it would be you. Me, maybe. I would have guess it’d be me. I didn’t think it would be you.”

The beer comes, and Yoongi takes a sip before he continues. 

“I’m not the best at showing it, but you know that I care about all of BTS. Even if we’re not BTS any more, even if we are doing our own things, I’m—I’m fucking ‘soft’, as Jimin likes to call it.” He grimaces. “Do you know how hard it was for all of us to not hear from you at all? It’s been almost three years, Jeongguk. You never reply our messages, you don’t show up anywhere. The only thing we hear about you is from the backup dancers who went to SOPA.”

“Hyung, I—”

“I’m not here to nag at you,” Yoongi interrupts, “but I just want you to know where we’re coming from. We were worried. So when Jimin finally told us something concrete—that you’re going on that show, that goddamn stupid show that’s gonna suck the life out of you, don’t say anything, you know it’s true—we were fucking relieved. We were relieved to know that you were doing something.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk mutters. He stares at a particularly interesting corner of the table, focuses on the sound of the chef shouting at a server for being too slow. “I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, I just wanted to do my own thing.”

“Don’t apologise,” Yoongi bites, but it’s not harsh. More like something jagged with edges dulled. “It’s not your fault. We all dealt with it differently, and you took longer than us. It’s just—I’m just glad to know you’re doing something. You’re talented.” 

He pauses for a bit, like he’s contemplating whether he should say something, before he finally sighs and continues, “Did you know that Jimin screamed at Taehyung after he found out?”

At this, Jeongguk sits up. “What?” 

“After he found out you were on the show, from Sungwoon. He was so mad that Taehyung didn’t tell us. I haven’t seen him so angry in a while.” 

“But why would he be upset?”

“He cares about you, like we all do. But you know how he was away from his dongsaeng back in Busan for so long? He began to saw you as a younger brother, too,” Yoongi explains. “We all still keep in touch with Taehyung, and Jimin the most. I think we all expected him to say something, at least. We just needed to know you were alive, and Taehyung didn’t even grant us that, because he cares that much about you.”

“Why would—”

“He wanted you to tell us on your own terms.” A pause. “I guess it didn’t turn out that way. But I’m beginning to think none of us would have known until the show aired, if not for Sungwoon.”

Jeongguk hangs his head in shame. He knows Yoongi isn’t mad at him specifically, but to know that he has made his hyungs worried, even if he hasn’t talked to them in a fucking long while—hell, his heart hurts.

“I didn’t want anyone to worry about me,” Jeongguk says, low and soft. “I needed time. I was sixteen, seventeen. I came up to Seoul by myself and I needed to sort things out by myself, too. I was already the youngest and everyone cared for me so much—I don’t want to be a burden even when we’ve disbanded.” 

Yoongi sinks into himself, buries into the warmth of his parka. Jeongguk feels the same. It’s warm in here, but he needs to seek more when it feels like icicles are piercing his skin. 

It has been a while since he has talked to anyone like this. Jeongguk could not exactly speak with his busking crew about this, they wouldn’t understand completely, and he doesn’t want to bring anyone down with his problems. This sort of thing, it stews and stews under the skin, until it finally boils and spills over, and for the longest while he had been able to keep it under control. Focusing on school and performing on the streets was easy. He was good at what he did, and there was—there was no trigger, nothing to finally set off whatever there was brewing in his mind.  

“What has everyone been up to?” Jeongguk asks, tentatively. “What have you been up to?”

“I’m still with Big Hit as a producer,” Yoongi begins. “They’re getting another group ready, so I’m working with Slow Rabbit and Pdogg still, but also doing some stuff on the side. Working with Code Kunst soon, maybe Dean.” He sighs. “I’ve been living off coffee.” 

It’s bittersweet. Jeongguk is infinitely happy for his hyung, but at the same time, it sucks to know someone else has made it whereas you are forever stuck where you are. 

“I’m happy for you, hyung,” Jeongguk says, and he really means it. Yoongi is thinner than ever because he’s probably staying up late and forgetting his meals, but he’s glowing, because he’s doing what he loves. He originally joined Big Hit as a producer and even though he detoured for a few years, dancing and performing and pandering to fans, he can tell from the way Yoongi carries himself now—easier, more comfortable, like each step doesn’t weigh a million tonnes—that this is where he belongs. In a studio, behind the scenes. Directing everything instead of being ordered around. 

“What about you?” Yoongi asks. “Are you happy?”

“I don’t know. I’m not happy, but I’m not unhappy,” Jeongguk admits. “I went back to school, just finished taking my entrance exams. They’ll give us the results soon and I’ll go to university in the summer, I guess. I don’t know if I’m happy about it or not." 

Yoongi hums. “I don’t think you need to know whether you’re happy or not, not necessarily. Just focus on what you have to do now and everything kind of just… falls into place.”

“I hope so,” Jeongguk smiles, for the first time since they’ve met. The one that Yoongi returns makes his heart ache. 

The food comes soon, and the lamb skewer tastes like the past. It tastes like three am suppers when they hadn’t even bothered to change out of their practice clothes, play-fighting their way to the nearest skewer shop, doing aegyo so that the hyungs will pay for their share. It tastes like a glimpse of home. 

 

* * *

 

 

Reevaluation results are nerve-wrecking. Maybe it’s because he had spilled his heart out to Yoongi, but everything is a lot clearer now—this is what he has now, this show, and this is what he needs to focus on. There are cameras everywhere in the A class practice room, focused as they are on everyone’s tense expressions; it’s not that the atmosphere is competitive, so much as it is downright terrifying. 

The rest have all received their results, and each boy returns with a blank face, as they were told to do so. To keep the suspense, they were told. Broadcast is a fickle thing.

“Independent trainee Jeon Jeongguk, please come forward and receive your results.” 

He gets up, and it feels like his legs are glued to the ground. He receives the envelope with trembling fingers, the most nervous he has ever felt in this entire competition, even more so than the very first audition, dragging the card out to have a look.

It’s A, he’s still in A. 

So he returns to his seat, and finally, it’s announced that everyone has retained their A grade—which is a miracle, Jeongguk thinks. Everyone breaks into smiles. Not of happiness, but of relief.

Then in come the rest. One crashes into the ground in his haste to rush in, and another is so small Jeongguk is convinced he is still in elementary school. There are nine of them, and Jeongguk can’t remember their names, not now, but there are a few familiar faces. Daniel, the pink-haired guy that they’d met at the lunch place the other day, and Jongyeon, the one who’d asked if he was from BTS.

He’s glad to have more people, but at the same time, this means more competition. More screen-time to share with the rest, and maybe one or two days ago he would not have cared, but now the fire is burning and he feels like he needs this. He feels the need to try, to go out on a limb. 

“There is one more trainee from B class,” BoA announces.

Taehyung walks in, hands wrung together (Jeongguk remembers this habit, Tae does it whenever he’s nervous) but wearing a bright smile on his face.

“Hello, I am Big Hit Entertainment’s Kim Taehyung. Please take care of me well.”

Everyone claps, and so does Jeongguk, but he doesn’t smile back. He swears Taehyung stares at him as he walks across the room and settles down next to the rest of the trainees, but even his newfound competitive fire cannot match up to the amount of courage it takes to look Taehyung in the eye. Not after so long, not after what Yoongi told him.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it, and it sucks. He hates it.

“Congratulations, Tae,” Jeongguk murmurs, when Taehyung sits down next to him. Because of course Taehyung would choose to sit next to him. “You worked hard.”

“Thanks, Jeonggukie,” Taehyung replies. “I can’t believe you had lamb skewers with Yoongi. I feel cheated, I asked you out first.” He turns to Jeongguk, and their faces are so close, Jeongguk’s heart is jackhammering in his chest, the ruckus of the rest of the trainees practising now merely dull white noise. “A meal won’t do any more, you know. You owe me a trip to Jeju.”

Jeongguk turns away and gulps. “Maybe, someday.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” Taehyung says, voice firm, a hint of a smile in his words.

 

* * *

 

 

Center selection is a fickle thing. Everyone has worked and practised hard, and so the idea of having to actually pick a center is nauseating. How can you choose the best from the best?

“A class trainees, you have a few hours to prepare whatever you want for the center selection,” Doyeon and Yoojung announce. When they had entered, everyone erupted into excited whispers. Two actual ex-members of IOI, two pretty girls gracing a bunch of tired teenage boys with their presence. “Good luck!”

So while the rest of the trainees go back to practising, everyone from A class begins to panic. Jeongguk included, unfortunately. A few go off to one corner, but there are already people writing lyrics, plugging their earphones in, marking dance moves with practised ease. The amount of competition is intense. Everyone in A class is already really fucking good, and to know that their screentime and initial popularity is very likely based off their one minute of fame—it’s scary, that’s what it is. It’s scary.

It’s so strange to care about something after so long. The feeling is almost foreign, but hints of familiarity still remain. He hasn’t felt like this since BTS was still together. 

“Jeonggukie, what do you have in mind?” Taehyung asks, after ruffling Small Woojin’s hair and sending him off to pink-haired Daniel and a laughing Seongwoo. “I’m all out of inspiration.”

“I don’t know,” Jeongguk admits. “I want to try, but everyone is so good, I don’t think there’s much point.”

“You stand out just sitting down doing nothing, Guk,” Taehyung laughs, like it’s something so fucking obvious. “I think if you tried, everyone would spontaneously combust in awe.”

Jeongguk blushes. He’s no stranger to compliments, especially not from Taehyung, but hearing it never fails to make his stomach feel all funny and twisty. Not back then, and certainly not now. 

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t think over what you say before you say it,” Jeongguk points out.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Taehyung smiles. A soft one, and it only ever so slightly reaches his eyes. “I actually think a lot about something before I say it.”

Taehyung leaves a little after, and Jeongguk is too focused on trying to figure out what to do for his own performance to think about anything else. It’s there in the back of his mind though. Taehyung’s voice, and the way it makes him shake. 

Everyone’s performance is brilliant, as expected. A few people fumble, and Daniel goes up with a lyric sheet (to which everyone grimaces, because now he’s definitely not getting a good edit), and Daehwi does the original ‘Pick Me’ choreography in terrifying sync to the new one. But overall, the quality is great. 

So when Jeongguk heads up, and everyone cheers, he can’t do anything except let go of any lingering expectations he might have. He won’t get center, so he might as well have fun.

The moment the music starts, he pulls the best face he knows how to: brows drawn downward, mouth stretched in a maniacal smile, eyes large and wide. He pulls his body in on himself and bends his knees, opens his legs wide, arms stretched open and wrist flicking with each beat. He will be a meme, he decides. He has bloomed into a meme. 

It’s a mixture of applause and laughter from everyone else, and he loves it. If he can’t make everyone spontaneously combust in awe, at least he can make them laugh.

When he scurries off the stage to a wave of cheers, from the corner of his eye, he catches Taehyung smiling at him, eyes shining with something Jeongguk can only describe as fond. This time, he smiles back. 

Maybe he can make something out of himself, he thinks. Maybe he can’t be center, but he certainly hopes he can be something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this went up faster than expected....literally just started about 2-3 hours ago but i guess americano ciggies and a cafe somewhere in garosugil do wonders
> 
> more taekook here, and jeongguk speaking with yoongi, hints to what happened in the past, and ~~things~~~~ now that pd101 is over i'm still reeling and in withdrawal and i'm glad i get to explore the world of Painful Survival Reality Shows through this fic....no but really, this is fun to write, as much as it is about exploring tae and guk and yes, the others will show up too. don't worry. 
> 
> thank you so much for all the support you have shown this fic so far, you guys are the sweetest
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/sassyneki)!


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